Siege of Stone Page 15

  And what was happening on this Gairloch peninsula looked as real as any of this stuff could be. He had heard about the mass sightings of ghosts or aliens through his usual channels, and had made the usual inquiries, only to find out that everyone who was supposed to have seen the things said (when they said anything at all) that it was a crock, and they hadn't seen anything and nobody understood what all the fuss was about, because nobody had said anything lately about seeing any ghosts or anything strange at all.

  That would have driven most of the reporters off the trail, and probably had discouraged some who used sources similar to Griswold's. But Taylor Griswold knew something that the other reporters didn't, and that was that Francis Scobie and a number of his friends had flown to Scotland and were headed right to the spot where all these supposedly rumored ghost sightings had been made.

  That was enough for Griswold. He had come over as soon as he had found out about Scobie and had tracked him down to Castle Dirk. Christ, what a great headline that was going to make: "HORROR AT CASTLE DIRK!" After all, he might as well expose whatever there was to expose. Scotty-boy had cut him off the payroll, so there wasn't any reason to avoid pissing him off. Of course, the death threat Scobie had made when he had last seen him made Griswold tread a bit lightly, but Scobie probably hadn't been serious, and even if he did catch him snooping around, Griswold felt confident enough to talk his way out of anything.

  As if all this wasn't proof enough that some heavy shit was coming down, Griswold had spotted one of the three feds in the town, proof positive that there was going to be a paranormal convention pretty damned soon. It was the tall older guy Griswold had seen from his car, and he was sure the guy hadn't spotted him. He had thought about following him, but they had nailed him before when he had tried to tail them, and he didn't want to take the chance again. Besides, he wanted to find out what Scobie and his fellow kiltie-boys were after.

  So here he was, making his way over a pile of fallen stones into Castle Dirk. He'd have felt like Errol Flynn if he hadn't been so damn cold and wet and pissed off. But he had always said he'd go anywhere for a story, and damned if this wasn't proving him an honest man . . . at least about his word.

  He couldn't turn on his flashlight here, but the light coming through the castle's grimy windows was bright enough to let him see an opening that led between the buildings and into the inner courtyard, or whatever they called it. He moved through, hugging the wall, thinking that no one could see him in the darkness, and that if anyone did, the rain provided so much motion in the air, they might not even realize he was a man.

  Now he was inside the courtyard, and there were a number of windows that were lit up. Still, he saw no sign of motion from within. Keeping his head down, he moved to the closest window, crouched below the bottom of the frame, and listened. He thought he could hear, over the rushing sound of the rain, men's voice coming from somewhere, probably inside.

  He slowly raised his head until it was at the bottom corner of the window frame. Then he tilted it and moved it up diagonally so that as small a segment of his head as possible might be visible from inside. At last he could see inside, and there in the dusty glass was his own reflection, lit from inside, his own eye looking back at him.

  But then that staring eye blinked when he didn't.

  When his eyes went wide with shock, the eye on the other side of the glass narrowed like that of a predator about to strike. Then suddenly men were grabbing him and pulling him away from the window, and he felt himself falling back onto the wet stones and being dragged through the rain while men cursed around him.

  Then there was light, and the rain stopped, and he was hauled to his feet and pushed down a corridor and into the room into which he had been peering. There was the man he knew as Francis Scobie, and some other men he recognized, the ones who had blindfolded him and taken him to see Scobie in the States. The room was large, but furnished spartanly. Plain wooden chairs, a large table, and a small desk. The only sign of decoration was two crossed claymores attached to the stone wall.

  "Taylor Griswold," said the big, red-haired Scot called Scobie. "Christ, I should've known you'd show up like a bad penny sooner or later. What do you think you're doing here?"

  Griswold tried to smile winningly. "I'm a reporter—I come to where the story takes me." Then he chuckled. "See, I'd heard about the sighting of ghosts around here, and then when I found out that you had come over here, well, I knew there must be more to it than just speculation. I came in here trying to find out how much you knew about all of it. Just wanted to touch base and see if you could fill me in, being as how I've helped you so much in the past."

  "And you wouldn't say a thing about us being here, now, would you?"

  "You kidding? Of course not. My lips are sealed."

  "If you wanted to talk to me, how come you were skulking at the window like a burglar?"

  "Well, I just wanted to see who might be with you. Didn't want to walk into . . . an uncomfortable situation."

  "You've already done that, laddie, and no mistake. So who else knows we're here?"

  Griswold considered telling him about the spook he had seen in Gairloch, then decided against it. The Scot was already pissed enough at him, and he was sure it would be news he didn't want to hear. "Nobody, far as I know," he said.

  "And who knows you're here?"

  "Still nobody. I keep my contacts confidential, you know that."

  Griswold had been watching Scobie all this time, so the voice speaking right in his ear was such a shock that he could not help but flinch. "The only true silent ones are the dead."

  He turned and looked into the eyes of the man who had been looking at him through the window. They were cold eyes, humorless. Griswold hated people he couldn't joke with, and he felt an intense distaste and discomfort as these dead eyes bored into him. He tried to keep smiling. "And truly professional reporters, like myself. We're quieter than the dead, believe me."

  "There is no reason to believe you, no reason to trust you, no reason for you at all," the man said.

  "Hey, c'mon now, pal," said Griswold, still smiling. "I mean, I've done a lot for Mr. Scobie here." He looked at Scobie for reassurance. "Steered a lot of real good leads your way, didn't I? Huh?"

  "We don't need your leads anymore, Griswold," Scobie said, shaking his head. "We've found what we were looking for."

  "Yeah? Yeah? What was that?"

  Scobie looked at the man with dead eyes. "Him. You're no longer useful to us."

  Griswold's mouth was so dry that he had to work up some spit in it before he could talk again. "So what's that mean?"

  "It means that you're going to spend some time under lock and key," said Scobie. "We can't afford to—"

  "We can't afford to let you live," said the man at Griswold's shoulder. Another man who had not spoken quickly removed one of the heavy claymores from the wall.

  "Whoa whoa whoa!" Griswold turned on the man with dead eyes, while carefully watching the one with the sword. "Who's running the show here? Are you?" He turned back to the Scot. "Or are you, Mr. Scobie?"

  "I'm running the show," Scobie said. "James, put that sword down. Angus, Rob, take him down to the—"

  "No," said the other man gently. "Kill him, James."

  Almost faster than Griswold could follow, the man with the sword was next to him, the claymore over his head. Then it came straight down upon him. Griswold was just able to put up both arms to defend himself before the blade struck.

  It did no good. The sharpened edge of the claymore sheared through both of Taylor Griswold's wrists, so that for a split second he saw his severed hands suspended in mid-air. The sword cleaved his skull before they began to fall.

  "What the bloody hell!" Colin Mackay bellowed, as he leapt to James Menzies and smashed the sword out of his hands. The claymore clattered on the stones as James staggered and went down on one knee, then fell headlong into the gore that had run from Taylor Griswold's cleft skull. Even a fool could see that
the man was dead beyond recall. "Why did you disobey me?" Colin shouted at James, who looked up groggily and shook his head, as if he had no realization of what he had just done.

  "He could not help himself," Mulcifer said quietly. "I told him what to do, and he did it. Had his own mother and father and whatever God in which he might believe . . . or better yet, had the Bruce and Bonnie Prince Charlie both told him to restrain himself, he could not have done it. So don't blame him. Blame me." He grinned. "I like it when people blame me."

  Colin knew that he might be making a terrible mistake, but he couldn't help himself. He backhanded Mulcifer with a closed fist, and felt a surge of joy as he saw the man's leonine head snap back, and heard a grunt escape those sneering lips. Though he might not be able to kill him, if what his father had said was true, he could still cause him pain. Then he grabbed the front of Mulcifer's shirt and pulled the creature to him until their faces were only inches apart.

  "You don't tell my men what to do," Colin growled from deep in his throat. It was all he could do to keep his hands from encircling Mulcifer's neck. "You keep your filthy thoughts and your bloody will out of their minds, do you hear me?"

  Mulcifer started to chuckle, and when Colin could no longer bear touching him, he pushed him away. "Colin, Colin, Colin," Mulcifer cooed. "I wanted this slug dead, yes, I did, but I'd scarcely even thought about it when James reacted." Mulcifer looked at Menzies, who was still half-lying on the floor, his clothes soaked with his victim's blood and brains, his face still puzzled, as if trying to comprehend the reality of what he had just done. "So malleable," said Mulcifer. "My wish is his command."

  "Then stop wishing, God damn you!" The thought of challenge rose into Colin's mind, and he decided that this was the time. If he relinquished any control of his men now, he would never get it back. And if he had already lost it forever, he might as well know now as later. He could not bear mockery. "Or would you like to try me out, you damned brute?" he asked.

  "Be careful now," Mulcifer replied, his voice low and dangerous. "Be careful what you ask for, boy. The deaths of thousands were on my hands a millennium ago."

  "Oh, I'm so frightened. Look, I'm quivering. Why don't you make me pick up that wee sword, Mulcifer, can you do that?"

  The creature's eyes narrowed and stared into Colin's, and a frown of intense concentration came over his long, angular face. But Colin gave him back stare for stare, and felt nothing but the adrenaline rush of a contest that he had to win.

  For all of Mulcifer's Svengali postures, Colin's mind was untouched. It wasn't even as if anyone was scratching weakly at the door. There was nothing at all.

  At last he relaxed, and smiled at Mulcifer, who knew well enough what the smile meant, even if his own inability to make contact had not yet told him. The tension in Mulcifer's face slowly vanished, and Colin fancied he saw there a grudging respect that bespoke compromise. "Colin Mackay," said Mulcifer, as if he were pronouncing the name of a prince. "You are indeed your father's son."

  He knew he was. His blood, pure and untainted by Mulcifer's, had been his father's greatest gift to his son, with the possible exception of the drink from the cup. "All right, then," Colin said. "That's settled. James, you clean this up. Rob, Angus, help him get rid of the body." Colin turned and walked out of the room.

  Yes indeed, boy. You are your father's son, Mulcifer thought, as he watched Colin Mackay go. And because of that, you will suffer unimaginable anguish. Watching this fool die was just the beginning. I may not be able to touch you, but there's scarcely a man among your loyal crew into whose mind I cannot slither as easily as a serpent into Eden.

  Chapter 25

  "They've released the cream of the crop," said Joseph, his eyes fixed on the computer screen. "Two are INLA—Irish National Liberation Army—and two are IRA, both connected with the Continuity Army Council, a splinter group. There's one Scot, and he's linked to a very small paramilitary Scottish independence group. They're not taken very seriously, or at least they weren't until this laddie's sniper attack left three Scottish MPs dead. That's members of Parliament, not military police."

  "I figured," Laika said. "Is there any pattern involved?"

  "Well, aside from freeing the absolute worst of the worst, they went from Maze to Maghaberry to Maze to Maghaberry to Edinburgh."

  "I bet they're nervous in Maze tonight," Tony said. "There's one thing that's mildly interesting in reference to our Templar castle. The one van left the castle two days before the first break, and returned the day after the last one."

  "Could be coincidence," said Laika. "If this bunch in the castle are a new crew of Templars, why would they be freeing terrorists?"

  "I don't know," said Joseph. "Maybe we're barking up the wrong tree entirely. Just the same, it might be a good idea to see when that van leaves again and where it goes." Joseph leaned toward the monitor and peered into it. "If by any chance they're behind it, I think they'll be on their way to Hixton."

  "Where?" Laika asked.

  "Hixton Prison, near Carlisle, just over the Scottish border. That's where the British government's holding Kevin Brady."

  "I read about him," Tony said. "'Mad Dog' Brady?"

  "That's the boy. Responsible for a series of bombings that killed a total of eighty-five people, a good number of women and children among them. Couldn't keep him in Maze Prison—he kept trying to kill his fellow inmates. He's in solitary in Hixton. His M.O. would be right in line with the fine character of the rest of the freed terrorists."

  "Well, we can't stake out an entire prison," said Laika.

  "No. That's why the best thing might be to just keep watching what's in our own backyard."

  "That's a real long shot," said Tony.

  "It's an even longer shot for Skye to think that three covert agents can do what the British government can't," Laika said. "I think it's just wishful thinking on his part."

  "Yeah, but we've got one advantage the British government doesn't," said Joseph. "We know about the Prisoner, and what he's capable of. And we've linked him with the castle. And since we can only be in one place at a time . . ." He shrugged. "But I suggest a twenty-four/seven on the place starting now. When they go, I'll follow alone."

  "Why alone?" asked Tony.

  "Joseph's the one who can pose as a Brit," Laika answered. "Anything happens to him, maybe the two of us can bail him out. Wherever he goes, there are going to be hordes of British police." She turned to Joseph. "If they head toward Hixton, or any other prison, I want you to stay uninvolved. Observe, but not too closely. You can't prevent an escape on your own, and I don't want you captured as an accessory."

  "Me neither, believe me. I've got no cover on this, so I won't be taking a damn thing in my pockets except money. The Peugeot's untraceable, if I'd be stopped."

  "Don't think negatively." Laika smiled. "I'll take first shift on the ridge. I'll call on the cell phone if a van leaves tonight."

  "Fine," Joseph said. "They'll have to come by here to get off the peninsula. I can pick them up easy enough."

  "You're not used to pursuit," Tony said. "I think I should go along."

  Laika shook her head. "Joseph's a big boy. He can stay on them without being spotted. Besides, we can't risk losing both of you, not that I'd expect that to happen."

  Their heads all turned as one then to the front of the cottage as they heard the sound of a car coming into the gravel driveway. Tony went to the window and looked out. "Inspector Fraser. She's alone." Joseph hit a few keys, and the monitor's screen went black. Then they let in Molly Fraser.

  "So," she said as Joseph took her dripping mack and hung it by the door, "just thought we might compare notes . . . if there's anything to compare."

  "I'm afraid we haven't come up with much," said Laika, as they entered the living room and sat down. "We've been to a number of libraries seeing if there's been anything in the peninsula's past or its geological or climatic makeup that could spur any theory concerning the sightings."

 
Molly Fraser raised an eyebrow. "What about your 'ghost machine' theory? I thought you were going to investigate the castle."

  "Well, frankly, we haven't had much luck there. How has MI5 fared?"

  "You don't know about Mr. Scobie and his friends?" Molly asked, an eyebrow raised. "He just inherited the castle from his daddy, who died and was buried over in the States. Son Francis came up from Glasgow with a batch of his chums, and they've been playing lord of the manor. Or maybe lady . . ."

  "Meaning?" asked Laika.

  "Meaning from what was learned in Glasgow, that they're a pretty well outed group of gay men. People who knew them down there said they were nothing but idlers, living for the night life and little more. They hardly sound like the mad scientists that you envisioned."

  "To tell the truth," Laika said, smiling, "they haven't done much of anything, as far as we've been able to see, and we've kept pretty solid surveillance on them. So I'm afraid we've been striking out so far. How about your group? Any news about the cloth you mentioned?"

  Molly paused for a moment, as if trying to decide how much to tell. Then she closed her eyes and shrugged. "The cloth that was found is not the larger piece that the Fairy Flag of the Mackenzies came from. The piece didn't fit. But surprise, surprise, it is radioactive, and the Mackenzies were really surprised to find that it does glow in the dark. One more detail to brighten its legend and draw more tourists. MI5 has . . . requested possession of it for the time being, but Lord Mackenzie is already planning a darkened display room in one of the towers. And he'll probably sell those glow sticks in his gift shop now."

  They chatted a bit more without giving each other any additional information, and Molly said goodnight, reminding them to contact her should they learn anything of value, and promising to do the same for them. The ops agreed, all of them knowing that the promise was conditional.